


the first poem in the world

by thimble



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: You abide by one rule and one rule alone: that those who can't defend their territories don't deserve to eat.





	the first poem in the world

 

You can sum up the 20th Ward in a single, six letter word review: quaint. The sun shining gently (gentle as breaking a man's hand one finger at a time) on every nook and cranny of the town is quaint. The air smelling appropriately like spring (the carnage of the evening washed clean come morning), all flowers and crisp wind and honeydew, is quaint. The people — and you hope no one gets the idea you regard humans as  _people_  — are quaint, too.

You mean the others like you; you mean the top of the food chain. They have quite the arrangement around here, you're amused to discover, unwritten laws scribbled on the walls of every alley in fine print. This invisible graffiti, tattooed along the inside of skull rather than stone, say things like, restrain your appetite. Don't feed outside your allotted grounds. Wait your turn, even, which is one of your favorites. Implying that hunger isn't an immediate need, that your desires don't deserve to be catered to the moment your stomach rumbles. As if you had the patience, as if you had the control!

No self-respecting ghoul would willingly confine themselves this way, you reason, so you'll unravel their little charade soon enough. You abide by one rule and one rule alone: that those who can't defend their territories don't deserve to eat —  _c'est la vie!_  — but there's no need to rush.

You're the kind of girl who stops to smell the roses along the way.

Or stomp on them, rip them from their roots; it's all a matter of semantics.

 

* * *

 

Anteiku's existence is a marvel in itself, its existence so unnatural you simply had to witness it with your own eyes. They say there's a cafe run by ghouls right in the heart of the city, where the population is most ripe for the picking. They say it's not even strategic placement for hunting — it's where monsters congregate, not to feed, but to drink coffee. It goes against everything you believe in, but it's also a deviation from the boring norm. You'll stay here, you think. You'll stay and enjoy the espressos until it loses its novelty.

At the very least, its service staff are unlike any ghoul you've come across before.

There's those two behind the counter, their hands seemingly born to work the machines rather than to tear apart flesh. The woman doesn't talk much, but you overhear bits and pieces of her story from a few tables over. She's looking for redemption in the same vein you're looking for adventure.

It doesn't take a genius to ascertain that you won't get along.

The man, on the other amputated hand, can't shut his mouth about the glory days. "But all of that's behind me," is how he'd end every anecdote, implying that he's settled down now, the need for carnage seeped out of him like pus from a puncture.

A shudder crawls along the delicate planes of your shoulders at the thought that any one place can contain you, for longer than blood can run dry.

Once was enough, and never again. You'd sooner eat your own leg, but enough of that dramatic nonsense. Here's a better source of entertainment, a heartache waiting to happen.

It's that high school girl purposely mingling among potential meals, and, this is the juicy part, the bit that gets the pulp reader grinding her teeth at the twist: it's not at all like the way a farmer measures and fattens up his hoard. You feel hunger emanating from her in waves, but there's no intent behind it, and you can't quite decide if she's stupid or masochistic or touched in the head after eating too much bad meat. It's bound to backfire either way, and you've secured yourself front row seats for when it does unfold, an amateur theater production set up for your consumption.

Moving on to the rest of the pawns.

Another man surfaces from the night every so often, his role closer to errand boy than barista, delivering stale parts for the weaklings who can't hunt by themselves. He's strong — obvious, in the that way he moves, a strength wasted on kindness and an altruistic streak, and is about as chatty as a strangled songbird. Putting it kindly, he's about as palatable as an embalmed corpse, and you soon deem him unworthy of the attention you divert to the manager instead.

A kindly old man on the outside, considerate towards the well-being of his patrons, the brains behind this whole operation. He uses a soft voice to explain the rules to you, and you take pleasure in chipping away at that rehearsed gentleness after the fourth, fifth time he has to reprimand you for eating out of bounds.

To his credit, he's not without his redeeming qualities. You can sniff out the bastard underneath that bag of wrinkles — it's only a matter of time until you draw it out — and he makes a mean cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

You make your first friend in the ward, and he says his name is Tsukiyama Shuu. Whether or not the moniker is real is hardly an issue — your own is strung together by words you found pretty, with a seasoning of truth — but you doubt it isn't. He embraces each part of himself like a python would with its prey.

It began like a fairy tale with you two: he calls you miss, and pulls out your chair so you can sit without inconvenience when you frequent a cafe. Why, he even touches his lips to your hand as a cute way of saying hello! You answer with an old-fashioned curtsy, your giggles at his jokes approaching genuine. When you stroll through the city your arm is linked with his, like a newlywed couple fresh from the honeymoon. It's been a while since you've had anyone for company, and longer since you've had anyone to talk about books with. When he waxes poetic about turning human innards into delicacies, you find it in yourself to smile an adult's smile when they're humoring a child.

After some time, he decides to take the next step in your relationship. Upgrading you from companion to business partner, he asks you to open a restaurant with him, the pair of you so sophisticated, so alike. It's all very touching, really, and you don't question why you picked him as your favorite.

With his fancy suits and foreign tongues and refined tastes he may just be the quaintest of them all, and he bears a striking resemblance to a recently activated volcano when you tell him so.

"You pig," he fumes, sounding like a trapped boar himself. His eyes flicker black and red as he squeals, his real emotions peeking out from his civilized veneer, "you uncultured whore!"

See?  _Cute._


End file.
